


Short End of the Stick

by sunnilee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: College AU, F/M, Modern AU, Realization of Feelings, Sylvgrid Big Bang, but WHEN is what keeps things spicy ya kno, childhood friends to....??? ;), every predictable trope in the book, indulgent fluff, just WHAT could they do next??, the BEDSHARING, the cuddling for warmth, the fake boyfriend/fake dating, the finger brushes and heart flutters, the jacket borrow, the oh no i have feelings, the sleepovers, we talkin our classics, we're reaching peak stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29131179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee
Summary: After becoming friends with Bernadetta, Sylvain has been reading her underground work non-stop. It’s cute, it’s fluffy, it makes his heart pound in his chest and it makes him smile like an idiot.The only other time he feels like that is……is around his childhood best friend Ingrid Brandl Galatea.Oh no.He can’t just… he can’t just tell her! Maybe he can… drop some hints.Yeah!He’ll drop some hints.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 65
Kudos: 66
Collections: Sylvgrid Big Bang





	1. Life Imitates Art

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S HERE  
> IT'S TRULY FINALLY HERE
> 
> as a last minute decision, [mei](https://twitter.com/meixins) and I collaborated for the [sylvgrid big bang ](https://twitter.com/SylvgridBigBang) to bring you the stupidest sylvain for ingrid we could concoct
> 
> IT'S BEEN A TOUGH ROAD GETTING HERE AND JUGGLING ALL OF OUR OTHER THINGS IN LIFE  
> BUT WE MADE IT Y'ALL  
> I'm posting this before work, but I'll edit to include mei's [SPECTACULAR ART HOLY MOLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1356223910899904514?s=20)
> 
> HUGE HUGE SHOUT OUT TO [JUL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte) AND [OWLS]() FOR BETA-ING THIS BIG OL' MESS <3 <3  
> MUCH LOVE

Sylvain drums his fingers on his laptop keyboard, leg bouncing rapidly under the table as his eyes dart to the clock on the cafe wall for the fifth time that night. _Where is she?_

Restless, he reaches for his already-empty mug and grimaces at the cold coffee dregs at the bottom. As a senior, he planned out all of his classes so his afternoons were free.

_Great_ in theory, _piss poor_ in practice. 

Especially when he was two years ahead of his best friends and they’ve still got the short end of the stick when registering for courses, not to mention the entire laundry list of club activities they’ve stacked onto their plates to occupy their evenings.

Which leads him to his _current_ predicament. He’s been waiting for Ingrid to join him for the past two hours to go over an essay for the _one_ class they share together in art history. Something she asked him to take with her for one of her requirements because while it was a walk in the park for him, it was the bane of her existence. 

Similarly, so were the fundraising dinners she had to help host for her veterinary fraternity. The one that should’ve ended hours ago. 

Sighing again, Sylvain runs a frustrated hand through his hair and glares hard at the job applications he has open on his screen. Going over Ingrid’s essay with her was _supposed_ to be his way of ‘efficiently procrastinating’ on his applications, but with her event running late, he was stuck with the blue glow of his laptop, pixelated lines leading to his potential futures staring him down. He could practically _hear_ his father’s voice ringing in his ears. 

_Stop wasting your time and step-up to the family business. Don’t be a disappointment like your brother._

_Exactly_ the reason he wanted to distance himself from the Gautier family name. Successful business conglomerate aside, he didn’t want to ride on the coattails of nepotism. Even if that’s the _only_ thing his family will ever do for him. 

Stomach churning, Sylvain switches windows and finds himself blinking at his sparse cover letter when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Hope for even the smallest reprieve from staring his future in the eyes, Sylvain hastily fishes his phone out of his pocket and double-taps his screen. It’s not a message from Ingrid, but it _is_ an email notification from Bernadetta’s pen name. 

Eyes wide, he clicks to read it immediately, his word document momentarily forgotten as he delves back into Bernie’s tale of two knights, separated after being ambushed on their scouting mission to the Almyran border.

Sylvain had first met Bernadetta by accident, stumbling across her drafted manuscript for a writing competition in the library. It took him a few weeks to finally piece together her pen name and connect it to her, but he figured he should get it back to her as soon as possible.

And he did. Sort of.

The first time he tried, she fled from him.

Straight up sprinted across campus away from him. He stood there staring after her, wondering how the hell he was going to be able to return her work when she couldn’t stay within his vicinity for more than two seconds.

It ended up being Ingrid who returned the manuscript to Bernie, hunting her address down from Dorothea who lived in the same dorm as her. He slipped sticky notes in between the pages talking about his favorite parts of her work and what he’d like to see more of because _damn_ , Bernie was good at writing.

To his surprise, her pen name popped up in his email a few weeks later with a screenshot attached. _Congratulations! Your manuscript has been selected as a finalist among the submissions for short fiction._

Shortly after, another email with a link to her website came in. 

_Thanks for your help… some of the things you wanted to see more of are here…_

_But you don’t have to read them! I just thought… maybe you’d like to see more…?_

_It’s okay if you’re not interested!! Ignore this email if you’re not…_

And he, of course, clicked on the link and got sucked into every single one of her side projects. He left comments on all her works and that was the start of their online friendship.

_This_ update in particular though… This one had him waiting on the edge of his seat for _months._ Bernie had to put her writing on pause to finish drafting a different manuscript for her major. She hadn’t been able to update for the past few weeks, but if she did _now_...

Sylvain sinks down into his chair as he’s drawn back into the story, picking up from the last chapter where one of the characters was just shot out of the sky, tumbling down as she lost sight of her partner beyond the tree line. Her heart sank, thinking of the last she saw of him, several anti-cavalry mages and knights headed his way.

Sylvain’s eyes are glued to his screen, heart pounding in his chest as he reads the knight’s struggle in getting back to her partner with her broken leg, lance trembling in her hand as she takes down waves upon waves of enemies that crowd her and her felled mount.

His breath hitches in his throat as she catches an arrow in her dominant shoulder and feels his heart constrict as she uses her remaining energy to launch her weapon at the last standing foot-soldier. Relief washes over him when her lance meets its mark, pride brewing in his chest as she pulls herself up to crawl back toward her mount and begins to look for coverage to make it through the night.

Sylvain’s skin tingles as she begins to fade in and out of consciousness, her thoughts flickering to her separated partner, if he was still alive without her keeping an eye on him, his last words ringing in her ears.

_Stay where I can see you._

Sylvain stares blankly at his phone screen as the comment box scrolls into view. He blinks rapidly at the white box before his stomach flips and he starts furiously typing a comment for Bernie. 

Mostly yelling, a few sections of heartfelt words of affirmation, but definitely _a lot_ of yelling–

“What are you reading?”

Ingrid’s voice startles Sylvain away from his phone, clattering to the table as he whips his head to face her. She’s wearing a white dress fluttering about her knees, light makeup on her face.

His mouth dries. “Uh.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow and sits across from him, pulling out her laptop, small smile playing on her lips. “Reading something you’re not supposed to?”

His cheeks flush and he sputters indignantly, “ _No_. Bernie finished one of her manuscripts recently, so she updated her story on the side as celebration.”

Ingrid hums non-committedly and she taps away on her laptop. “What was it about?”

Straightening up in his seat, Sylvain rolls his neck and sighs. “I’ll just send you the link, Ing. I can’t even _begin_ to do it justice by summarizing. Besides, how are you holding up? That fundraiser of yours ran way overtime from what you told me.”

Ingrid groans loudly and pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _Goddess,_ don’t even get me started…”

Sylvain winks at her as he stands. “That’s _exactly_ what I want to happen. I’m going to get you some tea so you can tell me yours.”

Ingrid swings an arm out at him but he deftly dances out of her reach and bounds over to the counter. One order of chamomile tea later, Sylvain returns to their table with Ingrid looking worse for the wear, her forehead wrinkling at something on her screen. Popping the lid off the drink, he slides the steaming cup over to her. She shoots him a tired smile and gingerly sips at the tea. “You remembered.”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows at her. “One too many sleepless nights and burnt tongues will sear that into your memory. No coffee after 9 pm. No lids. _Ever_.”

She snorts and shakes her head at the memories of her first all-nighter her first year in university with Sylvain barely hanging on across the study room from her. She takes another sip. “Still. Thanks.”

His chest warms and he absently rubs at it, shrugging. “Anyway, what’s the deal with your fundraiser dinner? I was withering away over here working on my job applications instead of your essay–”

“ _Sylvain_ , you have to do those apps–”

“No no, we’re talking about _you_ right now. You can scold me later. Everything go okay tonight?”

Ingrid’s face twists as she struggles to find the right words. “I… yes? No? Depends which way you look at it.”

Sylvain blinks. “O...kay?”

He watches her fingers tighten around her cup before her shoulders drop with a sigh. She tugs on the green ribbon holding her braid in place and ruffles her loosened hair. “It went… fine. Better than expected really. A lot more money came in than we anticipated.”

His eyes narrow as she fiddles with the cup sleeve. “But?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

Sylvain frowns and props his elbows on the table, cheek leaning on his hands. “It’s enough to bother you.”

Ingrid picks at the worn cardboard and sighs again. “It’s just… One of the sponsors keeps following my every move at these events,” Sylvain feels his hackles rise as she continues, “I’ve shaken it off because he’s been incredibly generous with our chapter, but _Goddess_ , Sylvain. I can only be polite to a certain extent.”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “I’m well aware of that.”

She sends him a mock glare, barely hiding the smile on her face as her eyes return to her tea. Sylvain’s heart twists as she leans away to gather her hair over her shoulder, weaving a loose plait. His mouth moves before his brain catches up. “Do you want me to come with you next time?”

Ingrid’s fingers freeze in her hair and Sylvain stills in his seat, cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. “What?”

“What?”

“You… want to come with me? To an event?”

“I… well, _only_ if you want me to. So I can keep an eye on you.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Why do I feel like _I’m_ the one who’s going to keep an eye on _you_?”

“Under any other circumstance, you’d be right. But I’m going for you, not anyone else.”

Ingrid blinks at him and he fumbles with his words, “Well, for you. And for that creep technically. Keep an eye on him. Keep him away from you. Only if you want me to, though! I, uh, know how it looks if you bring me to one of your events.”

“And you want to come anyway?”

Sylvain meets her eyes. “Whatever it takes to keep that sponsor away. Maybe scare him off a little with the family name and all.”

Ingrid studies his face in silence and he feels his skin tingle again. _Maybe he should’ve asked for decaf on his last coffee–_ “Okay.”

He blinks. “What?”

She brings her cup back to her lips and takes a sip. “Okay, I’ll bring you to the next event.”

Sylvain’s mind is strangely empty. “Okay.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow at him, a bemused smile growing on her face. “Okay,” she double-taps her trackpad and turns her screen to him. “Now, about this essay…”

Sylvain shakes himself out of his stupor and his brain focuses on the _much_ more familiar subject of assignments. He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders back. “Yes, _about_ this essay…”

It’s just shy of midnight when the baristas make their rounds to exhausted college students still toiling away on their computers and poring over textbooks. Ingrid has just finished modifying Sylvain’s last suggestion when the barista stops by their table with a fifteen minute warning.

The two of them pack up quickly and step out into the cool autumn air. A light shiver runs through Ingrid and Sylvain automatically shucks off his beaten and worn denim jacket. He swings it around her shoulders just as she begins to protest, “Sylvain, I’m fine–”

“You know I run warm anyway. Can’t have you getting sick before midterms, right?”

She huffs at him, her fringe flying up briefly before settling back into her eyes. She fiddles with one of the brass buttons on the jacket and pulls it tighter around herself. “...Thanks.”

“Of course. Need me to walk you home?”

Ingrid snorts at him. “You know I literally live just down the corner. Like, less than 100 feet away.”

Sylvain shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thought I should ask, especially after you told me you have a new stalker—”

“ _Sylvain_ –”

“I’m just saying! Stay safe, okay?”

“So you’re going to stand here until you see me disappear down the corner?”

“Well, I’d _prefer_ to _walk_ you down the corner—”

Ingrid rolls her eyes and starts to walk away from him, fond exasperation in her voice. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Sylvain happily falls into step beside her. “And yet, you humor me anyway.”

Ingrid snorts again and elbows him in the side. Not even five minutes later, they stop in front of the apartment complex she shares with Annette. Turning on her heel, she faces him, voice dry. “And we’re here.”

He beams at her. “And my heart can rest easy knowing you weren’t nabbed in the 100 feet it took to get here. Admit it, despite all the bad things I bring your way, I keep worse away.”

She laughs and shakes her head at him. “Guess that’s why I’m taking you with me to the next event, huh?”

“Guess so.”

Ingrid snorts one more time before leaving him with a smile under the streetlamps _._

A smile that makes his heart skip. 

“Thanks, Syl. I’ll text you the details when I get them.”

His throat tightens. “Sounds good. See you tomorrow in class?”

She nods and then straightens up, shrugging his jacket off and handing it back to him, their fingers brushing. “See you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Sylvain barely musters out a ‘goodnight’ in return as Ingrid unlocks her door and steps into her apartment. She sends a quick wave over her shoulder as he stands rooted to his spot, his stomach lurching violently.

_That’s never happened before._

Well, wrong. It’s done that whenever he reads Bernie’s stories about knights, romance and—

Oh Goddess.

Oh no.

Oh _no._


	2. Dropping Hints, Dropping Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a turn of events, Sylvain is, in fact, _not_ in denial.
> 
> And thank goodness for that!
> 
> But does that help his predicament... or make it worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE CONTINUE WITH THE SECOND INSTALLMENT OF THE STUPIDITY SAGA FOR THE SYLVGRID BIG BANG...
> 
> I'm posting again before work so I'll update these notes after I'm off to include [SOME STUNNING MAGNIFICENT WORK](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1356610739025424387?s=20) FROM THE VISUAL ENABLER HERSELF [MEI](https://twitter.com/meixins)
> 
> if you'd like to see discount graphics that I advertise with (and more stupid gingers from other games....) I can be found lurking on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee).
> 
> now, let's strap into the worldwide tour of fluffy fanfic tropes hMMMMM???

They go back to normal. Or, close to normal. 

They still see each other in class, Ingrid still studies with him in the evenings after her classes and meetings… but Sylvain is experiencing _significantly_ more indigestion and chest pain whenever he’s with her. Small things she’d do that would put a smile on his face before, like stuffing her face with food or whenever she clips her bangs back to keep them from falling into her eyes, now came accompanied with a warmth in his cheeks or having his heart flutter in his chest.

He’s _miserable._

And it’s not like he’s… _surprised_ , so to speak. They spent a lot of time together. They’ve known each other since they were kids. He’d always found her cute but…

This is Ingrid. _Ingrid._ One of his best friends. He can’t… he can’t risk losing her over some _feelings._ He’d rather deal with some heart irregularities than make her uncomfortable. 

His phone buzzes and Sylvain’s heart lodges in his throat. _Speaking of irregularities..._

He unlocks his phone. It’s Ingrid sending him information about her next event, two Saturdays from now. His blood runs cold when he opens her message.

It’s not just any fundraising event. It’s her fraternity’s formal.

The formal where they all dress up and go with _dates._

Sylvain _knew_ there was the possibility he could be misconstrued as her date at the other events, but that could’ve easily resolved with a quick wave of his hand and a few sweet words of ‘ _childhood best friend, here for moral support’_ , the usual spiel.

...But the fraternity formal?

_Goddess what has he gotten himself into._

His phone buzzes again.

_Ingrid: Are you still okay with this? I didn’t realize this was the next one in the line-up…_

Fingers shaking, he mulls it over. Ingrid went alone last year after she rushed, but she had Annette and Ashe with her. She also _didn’t_ have this sponsor-stalker to deal with.

Sylvain sets his jaw and starts typing.

_I’m good if you are._

His fingers hover over his screen, debating if he should type anything else when Ingrid’s reply appears.

_Ingrid: I’m okay with it. Thanks again, Sylvain._

He smiles, despite the way his heart clenches. 

_Yeah. Of course._

_Ingrid: Pick you up at 7?_

His chest tightens, his fingers moving faster than he can second-guess himself.

_Isn’t that my line?_

_Ingrid:_ 😒...

_Ingrid: Anyway, I’m wearing teal_

_Ingrid: to match your favorite tie so you don’t have to go out and buy anything_

Face heating, Sylvain rereads her last text five times before he tosses his phone across his bed and shoves his face into his pillow, muffling his incoherent yelling until his lungs burn.

_How is he going to survive the night when he can barely read her texts without his heart beating out of his chest?_

Rolling onto his back, he inhales deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. Even with blocking out his vision, he thinks of her face under the streetlights when she smiled softly at him before returning his jacket last month. The mere memory makes him groan loudly, hand reaching to twist in his shirt, right over his pounding heart. 

_He definitely has feelings for Ingrid._

But her friendship is worth more to him than anything… he doesn’t want to lose her friendship. He _can’t._

Not after testing it time and time again after every self-destructive fling he had back in high school and his first two years of college while his brother was being disinherited…

So he can’t just _tell_ her... She wouldn’t believe him. _And,_ it’ll make things weird between them. He couldn’t bear it if she thought he was playing around like he used to with his other relationships. He’d never forgive himself if he ended up hurting her.

But _Goddess, kill_ him if he lives the rest of his life out like this, pining after his best friend. There’s _got_ to be a compromise.

Could he drop some hints? Ease into it? Test the waters? See how she reacts?

That if she wholly brushes him off he can close that door forever?

Sylvain opens his eyes again and stares listlessly at his ceiling. 

_That would put him out of his misery the quickest, right?_

* * *

Saturday rolls around and Sylvain stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with the collar of his shirt and obsessively checking his watch. _Fifteen to seven._

He resists the urge to run a hand through his hair and settles for adjusting his tie. _Again._ The teal one. His favorite one.

The one _Ingrid is matching him with_ —

Sylvain takes a deep breath as the butterflies in his stomach threaten to send yet _another_ wave of nausea over him. _This isn’t a sign, right? It doesn’t mean anything? It’s standard protocol to match. It doesn’t_ mean _anything_ —

The knock on his door startles him out of his mental chants and he stumbles over himself to get to the door. He swings it open and the air in his lungs leaves him in a rush.

Ingrid stands before him with her blonde hair loose across her back, intricate braids twisting together to rest on the crown of her head. His mouth dries as he takes in her bared shoulders, her strapless teal dress draping to the floor, the deep color fading to white at her feet. Ingrid clears her throat and Sylvain flushes violently, eyes darting back to her face. She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Up to your standards?”

Her lips are stained a pretty pink, light gold and soft brown tones dusting her eyelids, no doubt courtesy of Annette. Sylvain swallows thickly, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I should be asking you that.” 

Ingrid rolls her eyes at him and steps into his apartment, shutting the door behind her. His heartbeat stutters as she steps closer, her hands reaching up to straighten out his tie. His breath freezes in his chest and he fights the instinct to retreat as Ingrid smooths her hands over his shoulders. “I thought being a business major would’ve made you better at fixing your own tie.”

His skin tingles where her hands rest and he shrugs. “Sometimes, a guy needs a woman’s touch, y’know?”

Ingrid snorts at him and smacks his chest lightly. “Don’t be gross. I’m taking you out in public.”

Relaxing slightly with her familiar reprimands, Sylvain holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

She crosses her arms. “Will you?”

“Absolutely. Give me some ground rules and I’ll follow them to a tee.”

Ingrid studies him quietly for a few moments, her finger tapping on her arm. He barely keeps himself from squirming under her gaze when she speaks up again, “no posturing. Not unless I ask you to.”

He blinks. “Uh—”

“Just… I still have to do my regular duties as finance chair during the event. I know the whole point of you coming with me is to… keep that sponsor away, but I still have to speak with each of them the usual way. I can’t do that if we’re attached at the hip.”

Sylvain frowns lightly. “How will I know if you need me?”

Ingrid hums. “Stay in the general vicinity of our assigned seating for dinner. I’ll come to you.”

_Hm. Reasonable._ He nods. “Okay. I’ll wait at the table like the pretty arm candy that I am until you need me.”

Ingrid pushes at his shoulder again, scoffing. “You’re impossible,” but links her arm through his anyway. The back of Sylvain’s neck heats as the smell of citrus blossoms surrounds him. “Let’s go, can’t be late to my own event.”

Just before she opens his door, he tugs on her arm, stopping her. Ingrid turns to face him, eyebrow raised. “Something wrong?”

Sylvain’s heart flutters in his chest. “Yeah, uh,” her head tilts and his fingers tighten on her unconsciously, “a-about before, I meant to say it earlier.” 

Ingrid waits patiently as his words get stuck in his throat, her green eyes piercing through him. He tugs her a little closer, his blood pounding in his ears as her lips part. “Sylvain?” 

He pushes his words out before he loses his nerve. “You look beautiful, Ingrid.”

Her eyes widen and he hopes he isn’t imagining the light pink that colors her cheeks as she turns her face away from him. A soft _‘thank you_ ’ reaches his ears and warmth blossoms from the center of his chest as Ingrid leads him out of his apartment into the cool night air.

* * *

It takes all of his Business-major-trained discipline to stay in his seat and keep his fake smile plastered on his face _without_ twiddling his thumbs. He makes another round across the event hall from the table, pausing on a few familiar faces that Ingrid’s talked about before in the veterinary fraternity.

Leonie. Ferdinand. Flayn.

He even thinks he spies Hilda ducking out of the main room, powder blue ribbon fluttering with her pink hair as she swings Marianne with her. His eyes eventually wander back to their usual spot by the executive board table before he forcefully tears his gaze away to stare hard at his barely eaten meal in front of him.

He is _also_ very much trying his best to keep his eyes away from Ingrid for two reasons:

_One_ , because it’s for his own sanity. Last time he checked, she wasn’t facing him, which means the expanse of her back _is_. And as a healthy, terrible-with-his-feelings young adult trying to convince himself that he _doesn’t_ find his childhood friend drop dead gorgeous, he _cannot_ deal with that right now.

_Two,_ because she’s talking with that stalk— _sponsor_ right now and Ingrid _specifically_ asked him to refrain from posturing.

And so, he sits there at their table as agreed upon, trying to identify the burning in his stomach. Is it routine indigestion? Is it rolling displeasure from when he spies the sponsor stepping into Ingrid’s space again from his periphery? Or is it from the fact that he _meant_ it when he told her she looks beautiful and he can’t stop thinking about her pink cheeks and her quiet ‘ _thank you’_ from earlier _._

_Was that a sign? Was she okay with that? Does he keep going? Or does he just_ —

A pair of arms slides over his shoulders, coming to a rest on his chest. Ingrid’s warm breath washes over him as she leans in and whispers in his ear, “follow my lead.” 

Before he can even question her, she presses a light kiss to his cheek and says a little more loudly, “did you wait for me long?”

_Ah._ He hears another pair of footsteps approach and he takes that as his cue. Smiling, he reaches up and covers her hand with his. He brushes his thumb against her knuckles, trying to loosen her clenched fist as he turns to face her in the circle of her arms. “Only forever.”

He watches her eyebrow twitch and he barely suppresses his usual smirk. _He may have laid it on too thick._ His eyes dart over to the sponsor who suddenly looks a _lot_ less confident as he stands behind their display. 

His blood thrums beneath his skin. _Worth it._

Her arms loosen around his neck, leaning away. He automatically stands, following her warmth. Following her lead. 

Ingrid steps closer to him, her head almost tucked under his chin, so he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Standing this close to him and having known her habits, Sylvain can tell she’s doing her ‘ _meditative_ ’ breathing.

Or the measured breathing he likes to call her ‘ _socking-someone-in-the-face-is-socially-unacceptable’_ breathing. He tightens his hold on her and pretends to only just notice their ‘company’.

He resists the urge to rest his chin on her head and opts for squeezing her shoulder instead. “Who’s this, Ing?”

Sylvain feels her inhale one last time before she pulls back and flashes him her own fake surprise. “Oh, sorry Sylvain. This is Mr. Anwir. He’s the generous benefactor I’ve been telling you about. Mr. Anwir, this is Sylvain, my date.”

His heart somersaults in his chest. _My date._ Thankfully, his brain has another task at hand to focus on, otherwise he might as well have called it a night and committed to drowning in the wave of feelings that crashes into him.

_My date._

Instead, he steps away from Ingrid and extends a hand out, all of his father’s entrepreneur training bleeding into his voice. “It’s a pleasure, sir. Ingrid’s told me all the great things you’ve been doing for her chapter.”

The other man grasps his hand and Sylvain shakes it, _maybe_ gripping a little too firmly as the other man’s face twists just the slightest bit. He releases his hand and giddiness bubbles in Sylvain’s chest as he watches Anwir flex his fingers. 

“The pleasure is all mine. Miss Ingrid is quite the pitcher, it’s no wonder she’s been able to capture so many sponsors, myself included.” 

Ingrid tenses beside him and Sylvain forces laxity into his posture. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. She’s definitely a charmer.”

Ingrid’s head whips to face him, eyes wide and wildly searching his. He winks at her before ducking to press a kiss to her cheek. Her skin warms beneath his lips before she pushes his face away and smacks his chest, cheeks burning. “ _Sylvain_ — _!”_

He wills his own blush away and laughs. “What? You get to kiss my cheek, but I don't get to kiss yours? How is that fair?”

Her jaw drops and she sputters, “t-that… you… you know it’s not the same!”

Sylvain smiles and tilts his head. “Isn’t it though?”

A wiry voice cuts into the air between them. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but have you known each other long?”

Both of them face Mr. Anwir, and Sylvain finally gets a good look at the man. His pressed suit and slicked back hair tugs at a foggy memory, one of plastic smiles and whispered poison behind closed doors. He clenches his fists, seeing how the man eyes Ingrid curiously, gaze fixed on the way her hand rests on his chest. Sylvain’s smile turns sickly sweet as he turns back to face Ingrid. “Since we were in diapers. She’s kept me around for so long, it’s a miracle she isn’t tired of me yet.”

Ingrid scoffs and sends him a mock glare. “Or so you think.”

Sylvain plays it up and gasps scandalously. “You _wound_ me, Ing. How am I to recover?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes at his antics and shakes her head. “As you can see Mr. Anwir, I have my hands full with this one. I’ve taken up a lot of your time tonight, but feel free to continue mingling with the rest of the chapter for the rest of the evening. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to provide you with more information about our mission statement.”

Anwir nods reluctantly, “Of course, Miss Ingrid. Always a delight with you,” before turning to Sylvain, forehead creased with fine lines. “I must say, you do look rather familiar, Sylvain. Have we worked together previously?”

His stomach lurches. _‘Always a delight with you’,_ he remembers, the thinly-veiled promise whispered against his mother’s knuckles as he stood stiff-backed and frozen just beyond the hidden alcove at the venue his father rented out to celebrate the company’s success.

He remembers how swiftly and utterly his father ended the man’s career and swept it so cleanly under the rug that Sylvain never bought into the cheap smiles his father doled out ever again. 

But, with the way those _same_ words were uttered again, now directed at Ingrid… Sylvain finds that he can’t quite bite down the acid that coats his tongue and sharpens the lingering smile on his face. “Ah, I get that quite a lot. I am my father’s son after all. I don’t think we’ve formally met, but to introduce myself fully, I’m Sylvain Jose Gautier. I’m sure father would be pleased to hear that a business associate is so kindly sponsoring a close family friend’s endeavors.”

The other man’s face pales and Ingrid laces her fingers with his, squeezing his hand in warning. Sylvain squeezes back, but he can’t help but bristle when he watches the man’s eyes drop to their connected hands. “I see. Well, send my regards to your father. It was nice meeting you.”

Sylvain sends him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll pass it on.”

Ingrid clears her throat, a professional smile back on her face. “It was nice speaking with you again, Mr. Anwir. Have a good rest of the evening.”

He looks like he’s about to say something more, but his eyes dart to Sylvain and it looks like he decides against it. Instead, he gives them both a brisk nod before heading straight for the exit. Sylvain frowns as he watches him go until Ingrid tugs lightly on his hand. He turns to find her green eyes searching his face and he deflates, dread pooling in his stomach. He knows how much she hates it when he uses his family name to get his way. He gulps. “Sorry... Too much?”

She’s silent for another moment before biting her lip and shaking her head quickly. “No, probably just the right amount.” Her eyes return to his, a small smile growing on her face. “Thank you.”

Warmth blooms in his chest again and he smiles back. “It’s what I’m here for.”

Ingrid squeezes his hand again, eyes still on his. His mouth dries as she continues studying him, the back of his neck heating the longer she stays silent. “Ing—?”

A loud growl interrupts him and it makes both of them freeze momentarily. Ingrid’s face turns sheepish as her arm shoots to cover her stomach and Sylvain feels his heart swell with affection.

Underneath all the glitz and glam, past her responsibilities as the finance chair, even behind their little facade tonight with her fingers laced through his… Ingrid is the same as she’s always been. She’s his best friend and she is _hungry._ Without wasting another minute, Sylvain promptly swings an arm around her shoulders and steers her back toward the buffet he completely ignored earlier, his own stomach beginning to rumble with hunger. “As soon as your event is over, we’ll go order some fried chicken and fries. I need to drown myself in some good _grease_ after talking with that dude.”

Ingrid snorts but nods her head in firm agreement.

His heart skips a beat as she nestles further into his side even as they near the spread of food. 


	3. Rumored Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain, for all intents and purposes outside of academics, is illiterate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yowza, part 3 already??
> 
> where has the time GONE  
> in an accidental big brain move, [mei](https://twitter.com/meixins) and i are posting on a Wednesday afternoon about a Wednesday afternoon.
> 
> So, happy hump day y'all <3
> 
>   
> are you desperate for visualizations of the energy that went into these chapters? (the answer is yes. ALWAYS YES)  
> you oughtta CHECK THESE OUT  
> [steal ingrid's look](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1357009490483109891?s=20)  
> [steal sylvain's look](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee/status/1357008768773586944?s=20)

Two months have passed since the formal. The formal where he pretended to be Ingrid’s boyfriend and chased off that sleazeball of a businessman. Where he found himself realizing that maybe… that maybe he wasn’t really pretending at all.

And frankly, Sylvain doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Because _two months_ have passed and he can’t tell if he’s made any progress with this hint dropping plan of his whatsoever. At this point, he’s not even sure what he’s _trying_ to accomplish. The most he _knows_ is that he likes her.

Likes Ingrid.

He likes seeing smiles grow on her face, the lift of her cheeks brightening everything around her. He _especially_ likes it when those smiles are because of him. He _relishes_ in getting her to laugh, absolutely _savours_ every snort he elicits from his stupid jokes.

 _Goddess_ … He is most definitely too far gone to even try and deny his feelings. Not with the way his heart threatens to burst out of his ribcage and how he feels like he’s fighting off heat stroke every time she brushes against him.

His initial plans were to pine in silence, suffer from a fluttering heart and flushed cheeks. _Then,_ after agreeing he would go to the formal with her, where he’d pretend to be her date, her _boyfriend…_ He thought _maybe_ , just _maybe_ dropping hints would be the way to go. See if he could tease out any reaction from her, a hint to what she might think about him. About _them_. Being more than just friends.

More than just best friends.

But, of course, past-Sylvain did _not_ take into account his inability to read Ingrid. 

Like, _sure_ , he can still tell when she’s on the verge of being hangry or when she has exciting things to share with him.

All this _other_ stuff? 

The hugs she gives him whenever he brings her dinner if she gets caught up in late-night events. The head-leans on his shoulder when she wants to rest her eyes for a study break. The impromptu movie nights and sleepovers when he wakes up with her curled into him, face relaxed, breathing steady.

Nevermind the fact that he finds her hair _everywhere_ among his things. 

He can’t help it if his heart foolishly decides _this_ is what it means to have hope, when she doesn’t push him away, or when she blocks out time in her busy schedule to hang out with him.

And it’s not like they haven’t done this stuff before? They used to nap on each other all the time as kids, and it’s the least he can do to bring her some food if she can’t herself…

_Is he reading too much into things? Seeing things only because he wants to believe them?_

He’s been trying to gauge her reactions but… he still can’t tell if she knows. About his feelings. He _also_ doesn’t know what he’d do next if she _did_ catch on.

After all she’s done for him and seen him through every stage of his broken family life, cleaning up after all of his messes in high school and early college… apologizing to every broken heart he left in his self-destructive wake while simultaneously piecing his fractured sense of self-worth back together. 

She’s seen his fake smiles, seen him lie through his teeth, seen him flirt like it’s his only reliable defense mechanism. Would she take him seriously at all? Would she actually consider him?

Sighing heavily, he slouches down in his chair and folds his arms across his desk as he drops his forehead down. All of Ingrid’s past relationships, he’d been with her through them all. Even though they ended in break-ups, they were all… _nice._ Kind. Generous.

Everything he isn’t.

He’s obnoxious, excessive, and truthfully… selfish.

He’s incredibly selfish.

 _Would she even want someone like him?_

His fists clench. For everything she’s done for him and for staying with him when he deserved far less… Ingrid deserves better. 

And yet, he selfishly tries to see if she’ll stay with him a little bit longer. 

At least… until she tells him otherwise.

Then, he jolts when his phone buzzes. 

_Ingrid: Are you home?_

_Sylvain: yeah, what’s up_

_Ingrid: can I crash? Coffee shops are full_

_Sylvain: of course, when?_

His eyes widen as Ingrid’s next message pops up on the screen.

_Ingrid: I’m outside right now_

Pushing himself up from his desk, he hurriedly heads to the kitchen to get the water boiling for tea and scrounges together a passable snack for her. Last he could recall, she’d mentioned a board meeting today, but it was on the other side of campus—

His heart thumps wildly in his chest when his apartment comm rings.

She said the coffeeshops were full… but she walked all the way to his apartment without knowing if he was home.

Did she want to see him?

Did she automatically seek out his company, like he does hers?

_…He hopes she does._

* * *

Ingrid shows up at his doorstep, rubbing her temples looking as frustrated as ever. As his eyes scan over the heavy book bag on her shoulders, and he grimaces. He should’ve figured she wanted to jump right into studying for finals. Before she could open her mouth, Sylvain sweeps her into his apartment, slipping her bag from her shoulders and sitting her down on his couch as he goes off to fetch her favorite blanket and the food he prepared. 

He comes back to see her slumping into the cushions with an exasperated groan, ripping her hair tie off her braid. Sylvain’s mouth dries as she shakes it loose, eyes squeezing shut as she presses her fingers into her neck. She hisses as she works at the tension lining her shoulders and he finds himself setting down the snacks and dropping the blanket onto her legs, automatically plopping down next to her and patting his legs. 

Ingrid eyes him suspiciously and he huffs in mock offense. “Headache, right? I can help, just lie down.” 

She thins her lips before settling down, cheek pressing against his leg. She inhales sharply when he first presses down, digging small circles into her shoulders. Sylvain keeps working, slowly moving up the stiff muscles in her neck as her breathing evens out, shifting slightly so she could nestle further into his touch. 

Sylvain feels his chest tighten as he combs through her loose hair, letting it splay over his legs as he moves up into her scalp, cheeks heating as she hums absently, sinking deeper into him as she dozes off. He watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her slowed breathing and sleeping face making his fingertips tingle as he continues to idly brush through her long tresses. She told him once she kept it long strictly because the action of braiding her hair helped her relieve stress, the slight tugging of her scalp and the sliding of hair between her fingers soothing her nerves. Though more recently, the length has started to cause more trouble than it’s worth. The time it takes for maintenance, and not to mention the _shedding…_

He doesn’t know how long he watches her for, how long he keeps combing through her hair as she snoozes peacefully in his lap, the weight of her head steadying the fluttering in his chest. Sighing, his finger drifts to the crease in her brow, gently smoothing it out. He bites his lip as she turns into his touch. He _swears_ this is different from before… but aren’t the things they do for each other… they’re things they’d do for all of their friends, right? It’s not mutually exclusive… _is it?_

A soft groan breaks him out of his thoughts and he looks down at Ingrid as she rolls her shoulders back and yawns, her hair wild around her face. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes, rubbing at her cheeks while inadvertently causing her fringe to stick out at odd angles. Sylvain watches her awakening ritual with a barely concealed smile on his lips, covering his grin when she finally sits up and whips around to face him, eyes wide. “ _Goddess,_ did I fall asleep on you Sylvain?”

He smiles wider behind his hand and shrugs. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”

Ingrid huffs at him. “You should’ve just woken me up so you could get some stuff done. Instead you were stuck on this couch for… how long was I out?”

Sylvain’s eyes dart to his watch, then back to her. “Maybe 40 minutes. Like I said, no big deal. I already finished most of the assignments I need to turn in. Besides, you need your rest.”

Frowning at him, Ingrid runs a harried hand through her hair and grimaces as it gets tangled at the ends. “ _Still…_ you should’ve woken me up. I could’ve at least tied up my hair instead of getting it all over you.”

Sylvain snorts and her eyes flash to his. “A little late for that, Ing. Your hair is literally _everywhere_ in my apartment.” 

Flushing lightly, Ingrid groans again and tugs at her ends again, glaring at them. “I should just chop it all off.”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Now?”

Ingrid looks at him and matches his expression. “Well, I wasn’t planning on it _right_ this second…”

He checks his watch and hums. “I mean… the afternoon is still young. What’s stopping you?”

She blinks at him incredulously and pointedly looks out his window. “Besides the whipping snow?”

Sylvain follows her gaze and shrugs again. “We’ve had worse. We could totally pay Hilda and Dorothea a visit. I’m pretty sure they’re working shifts today.”

Ingrid pinches her hair between her fingers, and looks back at him. “You’d come with me?”

“Yeah, why not? I don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day.”

Thinning her lips, Ingrid stares at her hair for a moment longer. “...You’re sure? You really don’t have anything else to do?”

Sylvain smiles faintly and ushers her up from the couch. “I’m all yours. Besides, I know you’ve always wanted to lop it all off. No time like the present, right?”

Something crosses her face, but she turns her head away from him too quickly for him to catch what it was. He _does_ catch the pink in her ears and his heart stutters as she exhales sharply before looking back up at him, eyes glinting with something he couldn’t quite catch before she turns away from him and shrugs on her coat. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go cut my hair off.”

A quick call and a cold twenty minute walk later, they blow into the campus hair salon with the winter wind, dusting the snow off each other’s shoulders. Dorothea shoots him a perturbed look at the sight of him brushing stray flakes out of Ingrid’s fringe before ushering her over to one of the styling chairs. He sends back his own affronted look, only to get a patronizing eyebrow raise in return. He bites a retort back when Ingrid pauses to shed her jacket and bag, Sylvain automatically holding his hands out for them before he takes a seat on the bench out by the register. 

Slinging Ingrid’s purse over his shoulder and piling her jacket in his lap, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his emails. 

At Ingrid’s behest (and probably fueled by the absolute _smarminess_ he got from Anwir), Sylvain slammed out his cover letter the night of the formal, typing away on his laptop as Ingrid munched on their order of fried chicken, occasionally feeding him a french fry. He submitted his applications in the following week.

Ever since then, the interview offers steadily started to roll in, asking for his availability, some asking for a secondary application to be filled out. He taps on the latest offer and glances over the proffered dates, mentally running through his calendar if he had any overlapping conflicts. Just as he’s about to send a reply, he spots a flutter of pink in his periphery, shortly followed by a nudge in his side.

“Boyfriend duty again? You’re on a roll, Gautier.”

Flushing, Sylvain locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket, eyes jumping to Hilda. “Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?”

The elbow in his side digs deeper and Hilda’s sickly sweet voice grows venomous. “Pot, meet kettle.”

He sends her a mock glare. “I’m a senior, my afternoons are free.”

She scoffs and leans away, studying him. “Is that why you’re here on a Wednesday afternoon wearing Ingrid’s purse?” 

His jaw drops, but Hilda doesn’t let him get a single word in. “You can’t talk your way out of this one, pretty boy. I saw you two at the formal.”

The back of his neck heats and he fidgets in his seat, eyes darting over to where Dorothea works around Ingrid, clipping layers of her long hair back as they whisper furiously back and forth, a curious blush rising on Ingrid’s face. He looks back at HIlda, grumbling, “I’m not her boyfriend.”

Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The image of Anwir flickers to the front of his mind and he clenches his jaw. “That was the idea.”

“You know that means absolutely nothing to me. All I know is what I saw, and I _saw_ Ingrid kissing your cheek and holding your hand.”

“Hilda—“

“And not just _any_ hand-holding mind you, the hand-holding that involves _fingers_ , Sylvain!”

Cheeks burning, Sylvain looks away and mutters, “ _all_ hand-holding involves fingers, Hilds.”

“Don’t be an ass on purpose, Sylvain. You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

Sylvain inhales deeply and pushes his hair away from his face, fiddling with the fur-lining of Ingrid’s jacket. “Yeah, okay. I know what you mean. I just… I just don’t know what it means with _Ingrid._ ”

“And you’ve lost me.”

Lips pursing, Sylvain steals another glance at Ingrid, his stomach flipping when her eyes meet his gaze in the mirror before she scrunches them shut as Dorothea moves to make the first big snip. He gulps when Hilda clears her throat next to him. “ _Ahem._ ”

He sighs heavily and slouches down in the seat, his head landing on the wall behind him with a solid _thunk._ “Look, whatever you saw at the formal wasn’t real. It was staged. Ingrid’s been dealing with this…” Sylvain frowns as his lips twist around his next words, “ _sponsor_. He’d been tailing her every move at each event ever since she got him to donate, so I asked if she wanted me to go with her to the next one.”

“You realize this doesn’t help your case against boyfriend duty at all, right?”

Sylvain huffs. “She _specifically_ instructed me not to do any of the date _or_ boyfriend things unless she asked me to. What you saw was when she asked.”

Hilda stares at him blankly and deadpans, “I’m still waiting for the part of your argument that convinces me otherwise.”

If he didn’t have his hands full with Ingrid’s jacket, he would’ve thrown his arms out in frustration. Instead, he settles for groaning quietly. “ _Hilda._ ”

“ _Sylvain._ I don’t see what the big deal is. You’ve got ‘ _huge crush_ ’ written all over your face anyway.”

Blood rushes to his cheeks again and he sinks even lower on the bench, tucking his flaming face into his scarf as he tries to suffocate himself. “...That obvious?”

Hilda sighs next to him and pokes him in the side. “This is painful to watch, Sylvain. _Really._ Have you even _seen_ Ingrid?”

His heart leaps into his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Take a look for yourself. What do _you_ think Dorothea is saying to her right now?”

Sylvain peeks from beneath his hair and over his scarf, mouth drying as he takes in Ingrid’s short hair. _It looks good on her._ Then, his breath hitches in his chest when her green eyes catch his in the mirror before darting away quickly, her ears burning pink. 

_Is she…?_

“I’m not the only one who saw you two. _Everyone’s_ talking about it now.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat as doubt creeps into the edges of his mind, Sylvain protests weakly, “we’re not dating…”

Hilda hums lightly and pats his head. “Maybe, but that sure doesn’t stop _you_ from wanting to be, does it?”

Sylvain watches Dorothea step back and rest her hands on Ingrid’s shoulders, handing her a mirror so she can see the back of her head. He sees Ingrid’s green eyes light up with wonder as she runs a hand through the short ends, fluffing the bob Dorothea’s cut for her. 

Then, her head whips over to him and he thinks his heart stops as she beams at him, her blonde hair floating around her face like a golden halo. 

_No, it doesn’t._

* * *

The snow starts to pick up about halfway back to his apartment where all of Ingrid’s stuff still is. By the time they bowl into the lobby, the wind has already started whipping the five inches of snow into whirlwinds of ice. They stare at the weather outside before sharing a look, melting snow from their hats dripping onto their faces.

“You’re not going back out there.”

“I’m definitely staying over.”

Even though they suggested the same thing at the same time, Sylvain’s heart still leaps into his throat, his chest constricting as they climb the stairs to his floor. Ingrid flops backward onto his couch as soon as she’s through the door, sighing contently as she runs her hand through her hair one more time, marveling at the fresh chop despite the wet ends from their trek back to his apartment.

“Thanks for coming with me, Sylvain. I don’t think I would’ve done it without you.”

“Yeah,” he swallows thickly and plasters on a smile to hide the sudden tightening of his heart, “anything for you.”

Ingrid turns to look at him, eyes crinkling as she smiles and shakes her head exasperatedly. _He wonders if she hears him._ Really _hears him and knows that he means it._

Then, she reaches overhead with both her arms, making this little noise as she stretches her shoulders and he thinks something in his head breaks. Sylvain stutters something out that he can’t even be sure was real English before retreating _quickly_ into his room. He keeps his mind carefully blank as his ears buzz and his skin tingles. 

He snatches extra blankets and clothes from his closet before he rushes back out to where Ingrid watches him curiously. He dumps the pile in his arms on her before muttering, “I’ll be in my room. Need to schedule some interviews. Let me know when you want dinner.”

Sylvain turns on his heel before she can respond, the back of his neck heating up as he shuts his door behind him.

He never shuts his door.

Groaning, Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut and leans against his door heavily. He lets his head fall back as he slowly slides to the floor, his stomach fluttering violently. 

Hilda’s words ring in his head as he tries to get his heart under control. _Could’ve fooled me._

He presses a hand to his chest, fingers twisting in his shirt as he keeps his breathing as even as possible. They’re snowed in. Ingrid is staying over. It’s nothing they haven’t done before.

_It’s fine. He just needs to get through the night. It’s fine._

He rolls his shoulders back and stretches out his neck. He pulls out his laptop and _prays_ that he can concentrate on his emails, because he _cannot_ deal with his feelings right now.

* * *

Being in his room alone for the next few hours worked out for him. His eyes did dry out because of having his contacts in the entire day, so he had to duck out of his room to swap to his glasses… But other than that short venture out of his self-imposed isolation, he _was_ able to concentrate and send out all his emails, as well as speed through his graduation requirements and finish the draft on the final paper for the literature class he shared with Ingrid. 

_All_ the while keeping his mind _specifically_ off Ingrid and that _stupid_ attractive noise that she made because _how is he supposed to go on with that knowledge—_

Sylvain exhales sharply and flops back on his bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Now that he finished his work and Ingrid hadn’t come knocking on his door for dinner, he supposes he should… probably go back out there.

 _This is his apartment. He’s allowed to be outside of his room… even if Ingrid is curled up into a ball and all he can think about is sweeping her up, hugging her close to his chest, and breathing in the smell of her hair and maybe her arms would curl up around his back if she returns his hug—_ he shakes his head violently. Absolutely _none_ of that is _best-friend territory_ and he needs to _reign it in._

Taking one last steadying breath, Sylvain meekly peeks out of his room to see what Ingrid is up to. He finds an upright lump of blankets with hands poking out, fingers flying across the laptop keyboard as Ingrid remains engrossed in her work. The sight tugs at his heart and he’s moving before he can second guess himself. He quietly comes up behind her on the couch, leaning his chin on the top of the blanket bundle. “Not hungry yet?”

He can feel her jolt and he leans back, his chest buzzing as the blankets fall from her head to her shoulders. Her newly cut hair fluffs up around her face, and she smiles at him. “Oh, you’re done? I didn’t want to bother you. You never close your door.”

Sylvain rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and wills the blush away from his cheeks. “Yeah, I… I’ve just been putting it off for so long, figures it’s getting snowed in that really pushes me to do anything.”

 _Or her. Definitely her and how he could_ not _be in the same room as her in that exact moment in time—_

Ingrid’s stomach growls and he bites back a laugh. He ruffles her hair before he thinks better of it and turns toward the kitchen. “You should’ve come get me if you were hungry.”

He opens his fridge and hears her set her laptop down on his coffee table, followed by the rustling of his blankets as Ingrid joins him, still tightly bundled in her cocoon as she pouts at him. “You seemed busy and I already looked for snacks. All you have is _ice cream_ and it’s the dead of winter. Plus, it’s freezing in your apartment. Would it kill you to turn the heat up at all?”

Sylvain bumps her hip as she peers into his sparse fridge. “The heat _is_ on. It’s probably the draft coming from the windows. I’ll turn it up more after I get dinner started.”

“And pray tell, what’s for dinner? Unless your glasses let you see something I can’t, there’s nothing in your fridge.”

Huffing to himself, he reaches for the jar of pasta sauce and closes the fridge door, snootily pushing his glasses up his nose as he crosses his arms. “Now _that_ , McGriddle, is where you’re wrong. I have emergency pasta for these _exact_ scenarios. Something _you_ got me if I recall.”

Sylvain gets a face full of blanket and the jar of pasta sauce is snatched out of his hands. “Go turn the heat up. I’m not about to watch you burn water again—”

“That was _one_ time, and you _know_ it.”

Ingrid mockingly puts a hand up to her ear as she sets a pot of water on his stovetop. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the deafening silence of your heating system.”

Laughing quietly to himself, Sylvain shakes his head and cranks up the temperature, relieved they can still be normal, _despite_ all the weird things he keeps noticing and reacting to in return.

He looks back to his kitchen. Ingrid holds his blanket securely around her shoulders like a cape with one hand, the other stirring in the box of dry pasta he kept stowed away in the event he ever had to cook for himself.

Something that she got for him so long ago, that even she forgot.

Sylvain’s chest tightens and he bites his lip.

 _Almost normal._

* * *

Dinner, despite their usual jabs earlier, was a relatively quiet affair. Their bowls and utensils are washed and stored away, their night time routines already done as they sink into the couch, tired eyes barely open enough to take in the same movie they always watch whenever they have sleepovers.

As the temperatures drop further outside, Sylvain found himself sneaking under the blanket Ingrid’s been warming since they got back. Too relieved for the warmth to feel embarrassed, he sticks his tongue out at her when she whines indignantly as soon as the blanket lifts off her feet to accommodate his frame. “Can’t you get your own?”

“This _is_ mine, Ing. Besides, this one is already warm.”

She huffs and begrudgingly shifts so the blanket covers both of them better, grumbling, “first, dinner duties, now the blanket? What else am I going to have to sacrifice for you?”

He teasingly presses his cold fingertips into her shoulder, smiling smugly as she yelps and shoves him. Sylvain laughs as she adjusts the blankets again while shooting him a mildly annoyed glare. Sighing dramatically, he rests his head on top of hers. “Oh, Ingrid. You know I only ask for what I can give in return,” he pauses, heart thumping in his chest as she snorts. He keeps his voice as light as he can, despite the way he suddenly doesn’t feel so cold anymore. “What’s mine is yours.”

_Including his heart. If she wants it._

Sylvain lifts his head when he feels her shift, the back of his neck heating as she amusedly raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that supposed to be a line?”

“N-no!” _Yes… maybe? He can’t tell anymore._ “I’m being serious! You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you, because I know you’d do the same for me.”

He gulps as she continues to study him, his mouth moving again before he can stop it. “And I just, I don’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. It’s always been you, always for me. So… thank you, Ingrid. I mean it. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Ingrid’s eyes widen as they search his and his palms begin to sweat the longer she stays silent. _Did he say too much?_ He’s just about to apologize when her eyes drop and she ducks her head. “You don’t have to thank me, Sylvain. You mean a lot to me too.”

His blood pounds in his ears and he wonders if she can feel how fast his heart is racing. _Why did he feel cold again?_ Her voice breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Though… there is _one_ thing you can do to thank me.”

His brain latches onto the opportunity. “Name it. Anything.”

She peeks back up at him and grins mischievously. “Get out of this blanket and get me another one.”

Sylvain gasps scandalously and brings an offended hand to his chest as Ingrid nudges him out of the blanket pile, smiling all the while he exaggerates his shiver. “You’re really giving me the boot knowing full well being a personal heater is the only job I have? In the dead of winter? How am I supposed to survive like this?”

She launches a pillow at his face and he doesn’t have to see her to know she’s rolling her eyes at him. “You have a _bed_ , Sylvain. As for your unemployment status, I’ve already done all I can.”

“ _You’re_ the one who fired me—”

“And what kind of personal heater has cold fingers? Subpar performance if you ask me.”

Clutching at his chest, Sylvain wipes a fake tear away and slumps his shoulders. “One last request and firing me all at once? I see how it is. I’ll bring out another one of _my_ blankets for you while I go sulk in my cold, lonely bedroom.”

Ingrid snorts at him again while she bundles herself back up in her cocoon as he goes to retrieve said blanket. When he returns to drop it in her lap, pouting, she shakes her head at him. “You’d rather sacrifice some of our limbs by crowding under one blanket on your couch than keep both of us warm by giving me another blanket while you sleep in your bed?”

 _Yes,_ he thinks automatically. He bites his tongue and sighs instead. “Fine, _fine._ I know when I’m fighting a losing battle.”

Ingrid hums absently as she wraps the second blanket around herself and nestles into his couch. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Hilda’s words from earlier that day ring in his ears as Ingrid’s eyes flutter sleepily. His chest warms as she buries her nose into the covers and inhales deeply, a small smile lifting her cheeks. “Good night, Sylvain.”

Mouth dry and skin tingling, Sylvain whispers a quick ‘good night’ before retreating back to his room. He shuts his door gently and slides under his cool comforters, instantly missing Ingrid’s warmth. He bundles up as best as he can. While he drifts off, he idly wonders how long the storm would last and when Ingrid would inevitably leave the next morning.

* * *

Sometime during the night, his door creaks open and he stirs to the gradual dip of his mattress. He blinks the sleep away from his eyes and makes out a blurry blob easing its way under his blankets and his mind wakes _right_ up. “Ingrid? That you?”

The blob shimmies until blonde hair pokes out from the mass of blankets, her teeth chattering. “I’m re-hiring you as a personal heater.”

Sylvain barely has time to register that _Ingrid_ is climbing into _his_ bed _with_ him when her hands slip underneath his shirt and he _yelps._ “Ingrid! You’re freezing!”

He tries squirming away from her as she presses her cold toes against his calves, but she crowds his space quickly, sighing contently as she tucks her cool face into his neck. “So warm…”

His mind goes completely blank and he is _floundering._

 _Hands. His hands. What is he supposed to do with his hands? Where does he put them? Oh Goddess,_ hands. Her _hands._

He chokes back a squeak as Ingrid’s hands climb higher under his shirt, nestling in closer to his chest as she seeks out his warmth. “I-Ingrid?”

She makes a tiny noise of acknowledgement and he gulps, finally deciding to let his hands settle on her upper back. His heart thumps wildly in his chest as she shifts, her arms tightening around him. “Ingrid, what happened? Why are you so cold?”

Sylvain feels her frown against his skin before mumbling, “power went out. I don’t hear your heater anymore.”

His arms unconsciously bring her closer, shivering lightly. _No wonder_. “Goddess, for how long?”

“Don’t know. Maybe a few hours?”

He frowns. “And you were cold this entire time? Why didn’t you come wake me up sooner?”

Ingrid shrugs in his hold. “Didn’t want to bother you. Already do so much for me.”

Sylvain nudges his chin against her head. “Hey, I meant what I said earlier. What’s mine is yours, blankets included. Remember?”

Ingrid pointedly shifts her _still_ cold toes to the back of his knees and smiles into his skin as he shudders. “I remember.”

Exhaling slowly, Sylvain adjusts his hold on her to get comfortable. “Good. Survival chances were already bleak with unemployment, but they’re as good as zero if my best friend turns into a block of ice overnight.”

Ingrid knocks her head up into his chin. “Shhh, I’m trying to sleep, Sylvain.”

 _That makes one of them._ Ingrid shifts one last time, tucking herself more securely against him before her breaths begin to even out.

Sylvain, on the other hand, has to figure out how he’s ever going to sleep alone again knowing how it feels to hold her in his arms like she’s his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus au of an au: me writing hair salon au again with our favorite MVP dunkers: Dorothea and Hilda <3


	4. Best Two out of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions speak louder than dropped hints, don't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THE ADVENTURE ENDS....
> 
> ...and so does sylvain  
> rest in pieces sylvain  
> we ([mei](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1357369529643401216?s=20) and [i](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee/status/1357370059962908675?s=20)) love you  
> (click the links for the art in his memory...)

Sylvain’s graduation date draws nearer and he isn’t any better at reading Ingrid than he was when he first discovered he caught feelings for his best friend.

The morning after Ingrid climbed into bed with him seeking his warmth, he awoke alone to the sound of the apartment generator humming softly in the early hours of the morning. While the weight of his blankets remained, he was acutely aware of the missing weight on his chest where Ingrid tucked herself into him as she slept. Groaning, he’d slowly shifted to sit up, popping his joints as he stretched out his stiff limbs. 

He was just about to swing out of bed when his door cracked open and Ingrid poked her head in. Her face lifted into a small smile and Sylvain felt his breath leave him as his eyes fell to the hoodie she was wearing.

 _His_ hoodie.

Chest tightening, Sylvain kept his arms resolutely at his sides, lest he do something stupid, like reach out for her, because they were most _definitely_ itching to do just that. Instead of stepping further into his room, Ingrid stayed by the door, fiddling with the ties of the hoodie before clearing her throat. “It stopped snowing outside, so I should… I should get going. I started a coffeepot for you, so don’t sleep in too late, okay?”

And before he could say anything back, she slipped back out, his door closing behind her with a soft click. He blinked a few times, still trying to discern if last night was a dream or a memory. It wasn’t until he heard the tell-tale jingle of Ingrid’s keys does he scramble out of bed. He hissed as he left the warmth of his blankets but quickly wrenched his door open to see the flutter of Ingrid’s hair as she left his apartment.

A deep ache started in the pit of his stomach as he clenched his fists. He should’ve said something. Anything. _But to what end? To ask her to stay? That he wants to hold her for the rest of his life?_

He groaned, heart twinging when he looked over at the couch where Ingrid neatly folded his blanket and clothes. Resigned, he walked over, only stopping short when he noticed something missing.

_She kept it._

Sylvain whipped his head back to his door, blood thrumming beneath his skin. His hand clenched into a fist and he just barely held back swinging it through the air as his skin buzzes at the realization. _She has to see him if she kept it._

Turns out, Ingrid can, in fact, see him _and_ still keep his hoodie to herself. 

Months pass since that sleepover, and he’s gathered the proof of it. His sweater still remains in her possession, even though they’d seen each other at least once a week. First, she’d told him she had to wash it. Then, she left it in her apartment when they met up to hang out. Another time, she ‘forgot’ to give it to him, even though it was stuffed into her bag. 

He mentioned it to Dorothea one night over coffee, thoughts of Ingrid driving him to the brink of doing something incredibly, _incredibly_ stupid. Like, biting the bullet and asking her out. Which, of course, _Dorothea_ , more than readily encouraged.

“I don’t get what your deal is, Sylvain. Sounds to me like she wants to keep your hoodie.”

Sylvain huffed at her. “I’ve gathered _that_ much. My question is _why_.”

Dorothea stilled from across the table, hand midway to her coffee as she muttered in disbelief, “she really wasn’t kidding…”

He scrunched his nose in confusion. “What?”

She made an entire show of rubbing her hands over her face with exasperation, fatigue written all over her features as her sharp eyes cut straight through him. “Are you serious? Really, truly, serious?”

Fidgeting in his seat, Sylvain dropped his eyes to the empty mug in his hands. It reminded him of Ingrid’s empty mug in his sink from their sleepover. He grimaced. “Of _course_ I’m serious. I’ve never been more serious in my life—”

“Then have you ever, in that pea-brain of yours, considered the possibility that Ingrid likes you back?”

Sylvain opened his mouth to pre-emptively defend himself from Dorothea’s insults until her words registered. ‘ _Ingrid likes you back’._ He froze, heart pounding in his chest as his mind races to reconcile everything he’s ever known about Ingrid and everything that’s happened since he stumbled headfirst into his own feelings.

He gulped.

_Oh._

Dorothea sighed heavily and took another sip of her drink, rubbing at her temples. “Of all things to ask her, Sylvain… Asking for your hoodie back should be at the bottom of your list.”

With that, he watched her polish off her drink, numbly staring at the wall as she pat him on the shoulder twice before taking her leave.

_She might like him back?_

Ever since then, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. It haunts him every waking hour and if he thought he was tongue-tied around Ingrid before?

It’s absolutely _tragic_ the way he is now.

He just got a text from her, and his cheeks burn bright as he reads her message. She asked to come over again, needing someone to run errands with her on the weekend. He, of course, agreed. Dorothea’s words ring in his head and he types out his next text, hitting send before he can think twice about it.

_Sylvain: So, will I finally be reunited with my beloved hoodie this weekend?_

_Ingrid: Sounds like you want to see your hoodie more than me_

He bites his lip. ‘ _Have you ever considered the possibility that Ingrid likes you back?’_

_Ingrid: But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to bring it. I won’t forget it this time_

_Sylvain: Looking forward to seeing two of my favorites_

_Ingrid: you’re impossible_

_Ingrid: see you at noon_

Chest warming, Sylvain is just about to lock his phone when it buzzes with a new notification.

Bernie’s posted a new work.

He eagerly taps the link and sinks down into his bed to read. Scanning the summary quickly, his brow knits. _This is different from Bernie’s usual work… is she trying something new?_

Sylvain reads.

His cheeks flush and his skin tingles.

And reads.

His ears ring and he’s not sure if he’s breathing quite right.

And reads. 

Scrolling in a flushed daze until once again, he’s staring hard at the white glow of the comment box as it burns into his eyes. His fingers hover over his screen as his exhausted and exasperated mind attempts to reason with his racing heart. The second hand of the clock in his room ticks tauntingly and he bites his lip.

His heart wins.

He quickly drafts a new email to Bernie, hurriedly tapping out his number and a _‘can you call me? I’m desperate.’_

And he’s back to staring at his phone, hands trembling. With every minute that passes, he wonders if he’s asked too much. If he’s _actually_ completely out of his mind, but _Goddess_ he really is desperate and he _has_ to know—

His phone buzzes in his hand and his heart leaps into his throat. An unknown number. Sylvain swipes quickly and his words leave him in a rush. “Bernie, I’m sorry for springing this on you out of the blue, but just… that last update you posted—”

A tiny squeak sounds on the line and Bernie’s meek voice mumbles, “oh no, it was bad, wasn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have posted it—”

Sylvain balks. “No, no! Not at all Bernie, _no._ It was great and I couldn’t even think straight about what kind of comment I should leave you. And well, speaking of not thinking straight… your update is part of the reason why I asked you to call me.”

Bernie is silent for a few seconds before answering, “what do you mean?”

He flops backward onto his bed and runs a frustrated hand through his hair, resigning himself to entertaining this last ditch attempt in dropping the most obvious hint he can. “That game your two characters played… does it really work like that?”

* * *

Sylvain’s palms are sweating. How did he _ever_ think this was a good idea? The only thing keeping his hands from shaking is the vice-like grip he has on the shopping cart as Ingrid hums absently beside him, checking through her grocery list as she walks beside him.

In his hoodie.

Of _all_ things.

He’s not confident enough to say he didn’t let his jaw drop when she knocked on his door, purse slung over her shoulder, shopping list in hand. His eyes must have lingered on the hoodie for a fraction too long because Ingrid raised her eyebrows at him. “I told you I wouldn’t forget. Can’t leave it at home if I’m wearing it, no?”

Sylvain thinks he croaked out an affirmative.

He’s not even confident enough to say if that happened either.

“Was there anything else you needed to get?”

He blinks back into the present as he registers Ingrid’s question. His mind jumps to the conversation he had with Bernie just last weekend. _Now or never._

His hands tighten further on the shopping cart before releasing it completely. “Actually, there is. Why don’t you go check out first? I’ll meet you out front.”

“We can just go together, I don’t mind—”

Sylvain breaks out in a cold sweat and abruptly blurts, “N-no!”

Ingrid raises her eyebrows at him and he flushes. “It’s just, uh, a new snack I wanted to try. No big deal. It’s like on the other side of the store, no point in both of us going.”

Ingrid continues to eye him suspiciously but ultimately pushes the cart toward check-out and Sylvain feels his breath leave him all at once.

He sighs heavily as he speeds off, ten aisles down from where they previously were, eyes zeroing in on the snack in question and he gulps.

_He truly is desperate, isn’t he?_

* * *

The trip back to his apartment is, thankfully, uneventful. He even manages to forget about the shiny red box he quickly scanned and shoved into one of the many grocery bags Ingrid had already packed. She narrowed her eyes at him but opted to let it slide. 

At least, until now.

She’s standing in his kitchen, splitting their groceries into separate bags so she can grab hers when she leaves. Then her voice rings out and he freezes from his spot on the couch. “Sylvain, what are these?”

He gulps. _He’s not ready._

“Sylvain?”

_There’s no more time for him to be ready._

Sylvain bolts upright, standing far too abruptly to be anything close to natural, but jitters fill his body and he applauds himself for walking into the kitchen without tripping over himself.

He hadn’t done _that_ since he got his first growth spurt. And he really wouldn’t like a repeat performance in front of Ingrid.

Not that she hasn’t seen it before, but more so because she is _also_ now the girl he likes who _might just like him back and—_

He inhales deeply and joins her by the counter where she’s sorting their bags. Leaning as casually as possible, he prays his voice doesn’t crack. “They’re exactly what the box says, Ingrid.”

She gives him a flat look. “Some of us are better at reading than others. It still doesn’t tell me what it _is_.”

Sylvain lifts the box from her hands and does his absolute best _not_ to throw it out the window along with this entire ridiculous idea of his he concocted on a desperate phone call to Bernie.

He clears his throat. “They’re chocolate covered biscuit sticks.”

Ingrid blinks slowly, entirely unimpressed. “You were trying to hide chocolate covered biscuits from me?”

The back of his neck heats and he sends a silent apology to Bernadetta. “A-actually, I bought them for research.”

Ingrid’s expression changes from exasperation to cautious curiosity. “Research?”

He nods too enthusiastically and thinks he pulls a muscle. “Yeah! Bernie was, er, is trying something new out with her writing and she asked me to help her with it.”

The mention of Bernie shifts Ingrid’s entire demeanor. Her eyes light up and Sylvain feels his heart stutter in his chest. “Bernie asked you for help?”

“Er… yes—”

“I’m so happy she’s finally reaching out to others. What is it?”

Sylvain blinks blankly as Ingrid unconsciously moves closer to him, face brimming with excitement about Bernie’s newfound social skills. Or rather, _his_ sudden loss of social skills, _particularly_ those involving Ingrid, that resulted in dragging Bernie into his mess. 

“Sylvain?”

He jolts, a flush climbing the back of his neck. “W-what!”

Ingrid smiles bemusedly at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re being weird. Have you always been this weird, and I just never noticed?”

He feels his flush reach his ears. _Oh no._ Sylvain shoots his hands up, waving them frantically. “No! I’m pretty sure… I don’t think so—”

“It’s unlike you to stumble over yourself this much. Is everything okay?”

Sylvain gulps as Ingrid moves even closer, one of her hands coming to rest against his forehead and he prays to every deity he knows to _not_ faint right then and there. Her hand is cool against his burning skin, his head swimming as she frowns. “You _are_ warmer than usual. And your face is getting pretty red… are you coming down with something?”

“No, I—”

She moves back, hand dropping from his face. “If you weren’t feeling well, we could’ve postponed Sylvain! This wasn’t anything urgent—“

His hands drop the biscuits and automatically reach for her wrists, keeping her close as he blurts, “I wanted to see you!”

Ingrid stills at his outburst, eyes widening just a fraction. Sylvain isn’t sure how much redder his face can get, so his mouth starts moving. “I just… I wanted to see you. I’m graduating soon and we won’t get to spend that much time together anymore and… well, I um, I also needed your help.”

Ingrid stares at him in a daze and he fidgets in her silence. She _hasn’t_ moved away from him which he considers a plus, but she _also_ hasn’t said anything. _His mouth feels incredibly dry._ He licks his lips. “Ingrid?”

She blinks at him a few more times before a light pink dusts across her cheeks and she shakes her head. His heart thuds in his chest when she _still_ doesn’t move away. “I… I’m sorry. What did you need help with?”

Sylvain does his best to keep his voice even.

He’s not sure it works.

“Bernie was uh… looking into researching a game she wants to write for her next piece.”

Ingrid’s brown knits. “Okay, what game?”

His fingers unconsciously tighten on her wrists and she shifts in his grip. Eyes widening, Sylvain’s hands fly off her and he busies himself with picking the shiny red box up from the floor, mumbling all the while, “it’s called the, um, the Pocky game.”

Ingrid takes a step back to give him some room as he fumbles with the packaging, watching him in amusement as he straightens quickly, narrowly missing his hitting his head against the counter. Sylvain shoves the offending box of snacks into her hands as she raises her eyebrows at him again. “Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

She purses her lips and chokes back a snort. “Care to explain how to _play_ this game, Sylvain?”

Sylvain wants to melt into the ground and evaporate on the spot. How is he supposed to get _anywhere_ like this? Clearing his throat quickly, he stammers out, “R-right. The game is just, uh, one player takes one of the sticks and places it in their mouth, while the other player starts eating from the other end.”

Ingrid’s eyebrows climb higher onto her forehead and Sylvain wants Sothis to obliterate him right where he stands _this instant._ But he’s dug his grave and all he has left to do is hop in and get cozy. He swallows thickly. “The, um, the first person to break away loses.”

He watches her nod slowly, stewing over his words carefully. “I see. So what does Bernie need out of this?”

 _She’s really going to make him say it. She’s_ really _going to make him say it out loud._

He clears his throat again. “Uh, the emotions I guess?”

Ingrid stares at him and deadpans, “The emotions?”

 _Sothis, please._ Sylvain inhales deeply. “Bernie… wanted to try writing it for two of her characters, but she doesn’t know anybody who’s tried the game before… so she asked if I could help, with uh, references.”

Something on Ingrid’s face shifts as she parrots his words back at him. “...References.”

He shifts his weight and drops his eyes to the red box in Ingrid’s hands, unable to meet her gaze any longer. He glares accusingly at the chocolate-covered sticks, as if it wasn’t his own crazed desperation that led him here to this very moment. Sylvain thins his lips, voice strained, “Well, you know Bernie… I’m far more likely to play the Pocky game with someone and she just, uh, she just needed some more ideas on what’s going through someone’s head when it’s happening.”

Ingrid hums absently in agreement, her own eyes falling to the box in her hands as she fiddles with the perforated tab. “And you’re asking me to play it with you?”

Sylvain exhales sharply as she looks back at him, her face indecipherable. Heart racing in his chest, he steels himself, hoping she’ll hear him the way he wants her to. “You’re the only person I thought of asking.”

She falls silent again and the only thing he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears. _This is it,_ he thinks to himself. _She’ll say no and he can finally let his aching heart rest—_

“So, what do I get if I win?”

He freezes. “Uh....”

She pulls on the tab and slides out a packet, turning it over in her hands. “What’s in it for me?”

 _‘What do I get if I win?’_ plays on repeat in his head and he’s not quite sure he’s breathing. _‘What do I get if I win?’_

An elbow nudges into his side and he jumps. Ingrid’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at him. “Sylvain?”

“D-dinner!”

Ingrid pauses. “Dinner? How is that any different from what we usually do?”

He breaks out in a cold sweat. “Um. I’ll buy you a month’s worth of dinner.”

Sylvain watches Ingrid fiddle with the edge of the snack pack. “And if you win?”

His mouth dries. _He would’ve gotten to kiss her._ “I’ll… take a raincheck.”

Her fingers still on the red packaging and she hums idly before setting her shoulders, her green eyes jumping back to his. “Okay, how do you want to do this?”

He loses his breath and simultaneously loses all train of thought. _Ingrid agreed. She_ agreed. Ingrid. _Ingrid. Agreed._

“Sylvain?”

He jolts into auto-pilot. “Y-yeah?”

She hums. “How about... best two out of three?”

 _Two… out of three?_ Sylvain feels like his brain’s transformed into some kind of cotton because he _cannot_ , for the life of him, think of anything beyond that fact that Ingrid. _Agreed._

But, he _must’ve_ nodded in agreement because without missing a beat, Ingrid tears open the packet in her hands and pulls one of the Pocky sticks out, placing it in between her teeth. She smiles and wiggles it at him tauntingly, competition and _something_ else that makes his stomach swoop burn in her eyes. “Let’s go.”

She turns and leans back against the counter, eyebrows rising as he stalls in front of her. Sylvain’s eyes drop down to her sweater. His sweater. His palms are sweaty, knees getting weaker by the second, and he _still_ doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He looks back at her face, her glittering green eyes and the Pocky stick in between her lips.

_Seiros, what has he done?_

Taking one last deep breath, he takes a step forward. Then, another. He keeps his eyes trained on the tip of the Pocky stick because he just _knows_ if he looks at _her_ , he is going to _lose it._ So he hones in on the smooth, tempered chocolate and shuffles even closer.

Ingrid cranes her neck to look up at him and his heart skips a beat.

_He forgets how much shorter she is._

Sylvain ends up bracing himself against the counter, hands on either side of her as he leans in, tipping his head down toward her. He hears her breath catch and his back stiffens. Not daring to chance a glance at her eyes, he inches forward, finally connecting with the snack.

The only problem _now_ is how he feels Ingrid’s measured breathing wash over his skin and how _severely_ it sends his head spinning. 

_But,_ at least he has the Pocky in his mouth and he can do this part blind. Probably. So, he squeezes his eyes shut and starts nibbling. Every tiny crunch against his teeth sends a jolt down his spine as his face gets closer and closer to Ingrid’s warmth. There’s a buzzing in his ears and his mouth feels like it’s filled with sand, completely unable to taste the snack between them since all he can _think_ about is Ingrid.

Ingrid, Ingrid, _Ingrid._

Who stands in between his arms, warm and teasing, patient and waiting as she remains completely still while he advances in tiny _tiny_ increments because he doesn’t think he can do much more than that. Can’t _handle_ much more than that without his heart spontaneously combusting in his chest.

Speaking of his heart, it stutters to stop when he brushes against her nose. Sylvain’s eyes fly open.

Mistake,

Big big _big_ mistake.

Because he catches Ingrid’s half-lidded eyes, watching him intently, burning right back into his before they drop down to his mouth.

_Goddess help him—_

Sylvain reels back, his teeth snapping the Pocky stick as he desperately stumbles away from her so he can make _some_ attempt at keeping his fraying dignity intact. His hands tremble as he tries to steady himself on the opposite side of the kitchen counter, every single nerve on overdrive as the image of Ingrid’s face before him sears into his memory. 

Just as he thinks he’s got his heartbeat back to a _relatively_ normal rhythm, he hears a telltale crunch from behind along with poorly muffled snickers.

Despite all of the blood in his body pooling in his cheeks, he feels rather lightheaded. Torn between wanting to glare at her and hiding forever, he settles for covering his face while shooting her an indignant look from behind his fingers. “Don’t make fun of me,” he hisses, “it’s harder than it looks!”

Ingrid’s laughter bubbles up before she lets out a snort. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes and nose scrunching in _such_ an Ingrid way before she turns her face away from him, Sylvain thinks his heart skips a beat. Smile creeping onto his own face, he lets his hands fall away, mock pouting. “ _Ingrid,_ stop laughing! This is a _difficult_ game! You see why Bernie needed research for this?”

She chokes back the last of her laughs, wiping tears away from her eyes. She steals one look over her shoulder before bursting into giggles all over again. Even though her mirth is _entirely_ at his expense, Sylvain finds the smile on his face growing and he opts to groan dramatically. “ _Ingrid!_ ”

Ingrid shakes her head furiously, one hand clutching her chest as the other still holds the packet of Pocky. “I-I’m sorry, Sylvain! It’s just,” she snorts again, shoulders shaking, “I didn’t think you of all people would react like _that._ ”

He gasps and sputters, “w-what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Ingrid finally turns fully around to face him, cheeks flushed from laughter, a wide smile on her face. “Oh, I don’t know… besides the fact that this game seems right up your alley?”

Sylvain didn’t think it possible, but he thinks his face flushes _even further._ “It’s my first time playing this game, so I think I’m allowed to struggle a little bit!”

Ingrid shakes her head again, eyes still dancing with delight. “It can’t be _that_ hard, Sylvain.”

Despite the fact that he’s still drowning in embarrassment, he _also_ feels that familiar childish competition brewing in his chest whenever Ingrid teases him. 

So, he huffs and marches back to her side of the counter. She raises an eyebrow as he snatches the packet away from her as he makes an entire show of fishing out a Pocky stick and sticking it in his mouth, challenge glinting in his eyes. “ _Fine._ Your turn.”

Sylvain spies Ingrid’s pride reflecting in her eyes as she stands at her full height, head tilting like she’s figuring out the most efficient way to best him, like when they were kids rough housing in the backyard. A flash of something _else_ flickers across her face that makes him freeze in place and makes his short-lived bravado fall away as she steps closer.

And closer.

And closer.

And then he’s stepping back. Stepping back because _she’s_ walking him back toward his dining table, all the while keeping her eyes focused on the Pocky stick in his mouth and _when did she slide her hands up to his shoulders—_

Sylvain stumbles as the back of his knees meet one of the chairs and he grunts in surprise as Ingrid steadies him. His eyes shoot to hers. That _look_ , that _something else,_ is back again and his stomach lurches as she pushes him to sit. He tenses even further when she steps between his legs, one hand still lingering on his shoulder while the other tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, her voice barely a murmur, “it’s not fair if you’re taller than me.”

He’s not sure when his jaw went slack, but he feels the Pocky stick slip from his teeth and suddenly Ingrid is closer than ever, holding the stick between them as she raises an amused eyebrow.

Then, she places the Pocky back between his lips and starts her turn.

The first crunch makes his palms sweat _even_ more. The second makes heat shoot down his spine, _especially_ when her eyes fly to his and— _did she just wink at him, did_ she _just—_

A third crunch interrupts his train of thought, the fourth making him even _more_ lightheaded because _now_ all he can smell is the light scent of citrus blossoms from Ingrid’s hair. 

The fifth has her nose brushing against his and Sylvain slams his eyes shut, because _oh Seiros, oh Sothis, this is happening. This is_ happening. His heart flutters violently in his chest, every part of him that Ingrid touches _burning_ as her warmth draws even nearer.

He doesn’t hear a sixth crunch.

All he hears is the pounding of his blood in his ears and his own shallow breathing. Ingrid’s face is so _so_ incredibly close and she. Is not. _Moving._

Their noses are still touching and his skin buzzes with the shadow of her lips on his, warm and lingering.

She stays like that, hands resting on his shoulders, for what feels like an _eternity._ Sylvain squirms internally, _too afraid_ to fidget in his seat for fear _(and desire if he’s being honest with himself)_ of pitching forward and meeting her lips.

_But Goddess does he want to kiss her._

Kiss her and never have to let go because he knows, he _just knows_ , he won’t ever be able to go back to pretending the only thing he feels for her is friendship.

Because truthfully, he hasn’t ever really been able to pretend with her.

With Ingrid.

Then, she hums lightly.

Eyes snapping open, Sylvain feels his breath hitch in his chest when he finds Ingrid staring directly into his, viridescent green swirling with an emotion he’s always been too afraid to read too deep into.

Too afraid of being wrong and driving a rift between them that even Ingrid’s patience with him can’t bridge. 

So, he sits and waits, blood pooling in his cheeks as Ingrid’s eyes twinkle, a small smile playing on her lips as she continues to stay _exactly_ where she is. Mere millimeters away.

A hair’s breadth.

He shuts his eyes again, willing himself to _not_ pass out. _She’s teasing him_. His hands grasp his knees tightly, scared that he’ll do something _stupid_ and _idiotic_ like wrap his arms around her waist to keep her this close for the rest of his life. Do something that he can’t take back.

His grip tightens on his pants when she hums again, murmuring around the snack between them. “Sylvain?”

Sylvain is not breathing. He is _definitely_ not breathing and his mouth feels like sand. He swallows thickly, murmuring back, “Yeah?”

“Open your eyes.”

He does. Just in time to catch her eyes flicker down to his mouth before jumping back up. “I win.”

His heart skips a beat. “You—?”

Ingrid tilts her head and finally closes the distance between them.

And Sylvain is on fire.

He is in the _softest_ fire he’s ever been in, not that he’s ever _been_ in any fires… but with the way Ingrid’s lips gently press against his and how every single nerve ending _burns_ as her hands travel to cup his face…

He thinks this wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

Her lips move over his, all warmth and butterflies, and her thumbs brushing his cheeks… Goddess. 

_She’s a goddess, breathing the same life she stole back into him._

Ingrid steps even closer to him, her fingers brushing against the shell of his ear. It makes him breakout in goosebumps and _Seiros, what is he supposed to do with his hands?_ Ingrid’s _mouth_ is on _his_ mouth and his fingers are tangled in the fabric of his joggers and he _still_ doesn’t know _what to do with his hands._

Is this just part of the game? Is she actually kissing him? Is he allowed to hold her? Can he settle them on the small of her back and usher her closer? Make sure that she’s real and that this isn’t a fever dream?

In the midst of this mental turmoil, _this_ being _Ingrid_ , _kissing_ him, and _him_ , having achieved dreams he didn’t even realize he could have with her lips on his, Ingrid starts pulling away. _Right_ when his brain has resolved that _‘hey, Sylvain, you could probably kiss her back! You could also probably use your hands to hold her!’_ , Ingrid leans away, taking his heart with her.

Before she can retreat too far, his hands _finally_ respond and they spring into action, grasping her hips as he blinks dazedly up at the pink blooming in her cheeks and her widening eyes. 

_He wants to kiss her again._

Head still spinning, he tightens his grip on her. “Um.” 

She’s kissed him stupid. Her hands are still cupping his face and she’s _kissed him stupid_. 

_How does he get her to do it again?_

His gaze drops down and his chest hitches at the sight of the short end of the Pocky stick between her lips. _Oh._

Sylvain swallows thickly, “best two of three?”

Ingrid blinks at him slowly, eyes searching his face. 

Then, the corner of her mouth quirks up. He watches the last bit of biscuit disappear before her head dips down and he feels the brush of her lips once more. 

Heart soaring, he wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her closer to his chest. Ingrid hums lightly, smiling into his mouth as her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. A pleasant shiver runs down his spine and Sylvain tightens his hold on her, skin tingling when she leans more fully into him. 

Her arms drape over him and her weight settles into him, her warmth bleeding into every fiber of his being and he feels like he’s finally where he’s always meant to be.

In her arms, pressed against her, her smile on his. 

His heart swells with every soft breath that puffs against his skin, her lips whispering secrets that he’s longed to hear as they move leisurely with his. 

_Are you still okay with this?_

_You mean a lot to me too._

_Thank you, Sylvain._

_I like you too._

For what feels like an eternity, yet not _nearly_ long enough, Ingrid pulls back to rest her forehead against his, her uneven breaths filling his ears.

Then, she looks up and smiles. “So, when are you buying me dinner?”

Sylvain’s jaw drops as he stares at her in awe, mouth dry. He licks his lips, _only_ to flush violently as he watches Ingrid’s eyes drop to watch the motion. He clears his throat. “When?”

Her eyes flicker back to his, sparkling with mirth. “That’s what I’m asking _you._ ”

His heart flutters wildly. “N-no, I mean… _when_ … when did this,” he gestures vaguely between them, “change?”

Ingrid pulls back a little further to brush his hair away from his forehead. Sylvain thinks his heart is going to burst with the way her hand lingers on his cheek and how softly she smiles at him. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

His face slips into a pout and he groans, burying his face into her shoulder as she laughs and adjusts her arms to cradle his head. “That’s not an answer…”

He can practically _feel_ her raise her eyebrows at him. “Yeah? Then what about you? When did _this,_ ” she pinches his ear lightly, “change for you?”

Huffing at her pinch, Sylvain thinks back to the night he stayed at the coffee shop waiting for her. Thinks back to the way the streetlights lit up her small smile after he walked her home.

There wasn’t anything special about that night, nor about how she smiled at him.

There weren’t any fireworks, no huge light up signs that made him want to shout _‘baby, you complete me’_.

No signs that changed the way he felt. How he felt.

How he feels.

It was just… her.

Just Ingrid.

“Sylvain?”

He nestles further into her, inhaling deeply. _His sweater smells like her._ He sighs. “I don’t know either. I feel like… nothing really _changed._ I feel like it’s always been you, for me.”

Ingrid laughs, her shoulders shaking lightly as she shifts to press a kiss to his hair. “Well then, if I _had_ to make _my_ best guess…”

She nudges him off her shoulder, hand returning to his face as her thumb brushes across his cheek again, that same little smile on her face.

The one under the streetlights. 

The one that changed everything, yet nothing at all. 

She leans in to kiss him one more time, softly.

Sweetly.

She pulls back _just_ so, her lips brushing against his as she murmurs, “...me too. Maybe it’s always been you. Always for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THAT'S ALL FOLKS
> 
> OUR BOY DID IT  
> HE MAY HAVE TRANSCENDED FOR A MINUTE THERE.... BUT INGRID HAS SPECIAL SYLVAIN CERTIFICATIONS TO BRING HIM BACK TO LIFE
> 
> thank you so much for making it to the end of this journey with me and mei!!  
> it was an absolute BLAST and we hope you enjoyed it as much as we did!  
> this also would not have been possible without my WONDERFUL BETA'S JUL AND OWL, FOR MAKING SURE WE DON'T HINDER SYLVAIN'S STUPIDITY WITH MY OWN  
> Y'ALLS THE BEST <3  
> here's a recap of ALL OF MEI'S WONDERFUL MAGNIFICENT SPECTACULAR ART FOR EACH OF THESE CHAPTERS I AM STILL SOBBING OVER ALL OF THEM:  
> [Chapter 1](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1356223910899904514?s=20)  
> [Chapter 2](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1356610739025424387?s=20)  
> [Chapter 3](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1357009490483109891?s=20)  
> [Chapter 4](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1357369529643401216?s=20)  
> AND A [B-B-BONUS!!](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1357370186970501120?s=20)
> 
> You can find my track-pad edited sylvain doll for [1](https://twitter.com/meixins/status/1356223910899904514?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee/status/1356588180070350848?s=20), [3](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee/status/1357008768773586944?s=20), and [4](https://twitter.com/ohgee_sunnilee/status/1357370059962908675?s=20) here as well :).  
> (3 is a personal favorite and what inspired it all)
> 
> I'VE HIT TERMINAL SYLVAIN STUPIDITY AND I'M GLAD WE GOT TO SHARE IT WITH YOU <3


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